


all's well that ends

by Ejunkiet



Series: what do you want (from a devil like me) [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Episode AU: s02e02 Slow Down Children At Play, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, On the edge of pwp, Rio teaches her how to use a gun (and other things), Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, You've been warned, a series of lessons and choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:50:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: “You expecting company later?”His eyes are dark, swallowing the light, and her heart trips within the confines of her chest.“No.”He places his hand against her cheek, slow and deliberate, in a gesture that's becoming familiar as his thumb traces the slope of her cheekbone.“You wanna be alone?”





	all's well that ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [garglyswoof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garglyswoof/gifts).



> Alternate ending to 'Slow Down Children at Play'. Dedicating this to garglyswoof, who is the best brio cheerleader a gal could ask for, and my beta reader evil_bunny_king for looking this over!

He comes to her in the small hours of the morning, a dark shadow on the outskirts of her neighbourhood, and she almost doesn't see him, except that he wants her to. His eyes are dark and glittering in the circle of light cast by the streetlamp, and he’s perched like a predator on the hood of his sleek black sedan, watching.

She doesn’t know how long he’s been there, waiting for her to look up.

He doesn't say anything as she makes her approach, and when he doesn’t break the silence, she does, filling the space between them until it all spills out of her, everything she’s been holding back for the last two months-

_“I can't do this anymore.”_

He’s holding the gun in the space between them, his eyes dark and unreadable as they flicker between hers, and she feels the weight of it, all of it - the robberies and the violence and the lies - and she breathes it all in, holds it. Lets it go.

“Are you going to kill me?”

He touches her, then, with that soft, familiar gesture that's at odds with the violence he surrounds himself in. His expression is unreadable as he lets his hand fall back to his side.

“I'm going to teach you.”

\--

She brings him into her kitchen. Annie has the kids for the night and Dean is at the hospital - they'd kept him overnight after his fall at the showroom, and he'd refused her offer of company, not after everything that had happened over the last few days. Without anything to keep her away from her thoughts, there’d been little chance of her sleeping tonight, anyway. 

The gun had been heavy in her hand, the pearl inlay moulded to fit comfortably in her grip, and she'd never pictured herself as a killer, not even when she'd had the weapon raised and leveled, finger poised over the trigger.

She still can't see herself as one now, as she turns to face Rio, perched on the other side of the island, hands splayed on the white marble, piece tucked back into the back of his jeans.

“So, how is this supposed to work?”

He glances back from where he'd been examining the artwork on the fridge, the smattering of glittery painted cards she'd been gifted for mother's day, the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile.

It reminds her of that moment by the poolside, when Rio had moved in close, hand heavy on her shoulder, voice low and tinged with humour as they watched her son play in the water before them - the message was implicit, as heavy handed as the stunt with his own son a few days earlier - your family's involved in this, too.

He gestures towards the cards. “We're alone?”

She nods and he looks back at the fridge, his smile growing before he turns to face her fully.

“Good.”

He doesn't ask for more details, taking his time as he rounds the island, pulling up to her. He draws in close, until there's only a scant amount of distance between them, and waits until he has her attention before pulling out the gun.

The muzzle glints in the space between them, kicking up her heart rate as he turns it in the light until the pearl inlay is facing her, and meets her gaze.

“Take it.”

His fingers brush against hers as she lifts it from his grip, his eyes steady on hers as she measures the weight in her hand. It's lighter than his weapon, but still heavy enough that she wants to use two hands to grip it - and that means it's loaded.

She tilts it to the side and checks the safety, just like she'd seen in the instructional video she'd found on YouTube, and he lets out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.

“Good.” He steps back, restoring some of the distance between them; although he doesn’t retreat far, never does. “Now, show me what you can do.”

Her heart stutters, and she stares at him. “You want me to  _use_  it?”

He laughs again, and it’s a low, rolling thing as he shakes his head. “Nah. Take it apart.”

She glances from him to the gun, then back again, and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans back against the kitchen island.

“Start with the clip, then empty the chamber.” His voice is softer now, almost gentle as he guides her through it. “I'll let you know if you get it wrong.”

He talks her through dismantling the body, explaining the relevance of each part and how to clean it. When that’s done, he takes out his own piece and shows her how to hold it, weigh the balance of it and make the necessary adjustments so that it fits better within her grip.

He's a patient teacher, a fact that shouldn't surprise her now, not after she's seen how he is with his kid - and yet again, she's forced to reconstruct her image of him, of the man behind the mantle, beyond the eagle tattoo that swallows his throat.

Nothing about him - about this, for that matter - is normal.

When the pieces are all laid out on the counter between them, she takes stock of it all, the mechanical organisation behind the violence. She’s almost disgusted by the simplicity of it all. “So that’s it, then.”

There’s a note of amusement in his voice, and something else she can’t place. “That’s it.”

She glances to the side and finds him close, his eyes on her, dark and glittering in the low light. He’s drawn in closer during this exercise - and really, isn't he always close? - and she can catch a hint of his aftershave, feel the heat of him pressing against her side until she pulls away.

He looks away from her then, eyes drawn by the motion. A slow smile spreads across his face, and he licks his lips, slowly, deliberately. His gaze flickers across her features and drops to rest on her mouth.

She swallows, and his eyes flick back up to hers, holding her gaze as he rocks in closer, eliminating the last of the distance between them.

“You expecting company later?”

His eyes are dark, swallowing the light, and her heart trips within the confines of her chest.

“No.”

He places his hand against her cheek, slow and deliberate, in a gesture that's becoming familiar as his thumb traces the slope of her cheekbone.

“You wanna be alone?”

The moment hangs there, suspended; his hand on her cheek, her breath in her lungs. Slowly, carefully, she leans into his touch.

“No.”

\--

He's touching her as she leads him down the hall to her bedroom, his hand on her wrist, fingers lightly circled around her pulse. He's always touching her, she realises, as the door closes behind them and he presses her against it. His hand drops to her waist, the other burying itself in her hair as he tilts her head for better access, and her pulse skitters as he trails his mouth down her throat.

This is happening, she realises, as he mouths at her clavicle, his thigh pressing into the space between them until she gasps - and it's too much and not enough all at once.

He bites his way up to the juncture of her jaw as she curls her hands around his neck, pulling him in closer, and god, it's been such a long time. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to that sensitive place behind her ear and she bites down on her lip, swallowing a sound that might have been a whimper and he laughs, falling back until he can catch her gaze.

His eyes are glittering in the half light as they flicker across her features, taking her in, his thumb circling a patch of skin at her waist.

He leans in then, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low murmur.

“Let me hear you, mama.”

She releases a shaky breath, fingers curling tighter around his neck, her nails tracing the arc of his skull. She is - what is she doing?

She doesn't know, but she also doesn't think she cares.

He hikes up her thigh, using the change in position to get closer and angle them more tightly together - and there's something addicting to this, all of this; the flood of adrenaline, the illicitness of it, the fact that she  _shouldn’t._

She curves into him, wrapping her knee around him as they press together just right, and all thoughts on the morality of it all slip away.

\--

“Your husband, does he give you this?”

He’s inside her now and moving,  _moving_ , and she’s in the bedroom where she’d conceived three of her children, and Rio’s mouth is on her throat, his fingers rough as they circle the center of her, and she’s close,  _so close_ -

“He doesn’t,” she gasps, the words burning in her throat, and she should feel guilty but she  _doesn’t._

She can feel the curve of his smile against her jaw, the pressure and rhythm of his fingers increasing until she’s clutching at him, breath caught in her throat - and then she’s gasping, lights flickering and bursting into a billion bright stars behind her eyelids and  _oh, oh._

He follows her over the brink, heavy breaths and a muffled groan against her throat, and they collapse back onto the bed sheets, sated.

\--

They don't talk about it, after.

She keeps the gun in a locked box in her bedside cabinet, alongside some of her more intimate items, and she places the memories of tonight there as well, hidden away out of sight.

It's a stolen moment, and it doesn’t last much longer than the act itself, neither of them much for pillow talk. There's a job to be done, a loose end to be tied up (he doesn’t say it exactly, but he doesn’t need to either, the weighted glance from across the room more than enough).

He cleans himself up in her bathroom and leaves before first light, using the balcony doors that open onto the garden, and she opens the curtains, starts a pot of coffee, and prepares for the new day.


End file.
